


Wounds Always Speak Too Loud

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Series: Phototropic [10]
Category: Starfighter Eclipse
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 05:43:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8044585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: Three weeks have passed since the skirmish with the Colterons, and Helios is pretending, however poorly, that everything's okay. Selene, Praxis, Keeler and Encke quickly see through the ruse, and begin to wonder if the Fighter's first experience of real combat was more than he could take.Or: "The walls will fall, affirming nothing. So what's it all about? . . . Citizen, you will see how the innocent are bound to the damned."





	Wounds Always Speak Too Loud

**Author's Note:**

> Hooo, the feels. This seriously kind of broke my heart to write. Okay.
> 
> Over the past few stories, I've been trying to build up the idea that Helios is having something of an identity-crisis. Once he realized that he loves Selene so much that he'd rather die than survive a battle sans his Navigator—well—that's a dangerous line to walk, especially when it goes against the survivalist instincts which are the pride of every Fighter (and what the Alliance expects of him). His not-quite-having-found-closure regarding Valentina is another thing I've wanted to address: obviously SF:E isn't designed to plumb the depths of human psychology (heh), so at least in Selene's ending we get a pretty happy, glossed-over "Well, I have no idea what happened to my sister, but with Selene I have a family again, so yay!" However, if we take that at face value and with a solid grain of salt, I think that the trauma, or fear, of losing Selene (first experienced in the VR sim and then nearly in reality) would be enough to send Helios into a tailspin: He's already lost his sister and perhaps isn't in a place to consider being all alone again, or is simply unprepared and ill-equipped to grapple with the possibility (he and his Navigator did fall rather hard-and-fast in love, after all). Particularly given my non-canonical (mis)interpretation of the "secret" ending to the game (where it's Valentina who's in cahoots with the Anglers, as well as a brainwashed-Abel), I almost wanted (or needed) him to go through something like this.
> 
> Poor Helios. I'm sorry.
> 
> This having been said, Selene's still working through similar issues: I see him as having an incredibly strong protective instinct, to the extent that he wants to keep Helios alive (potentially at the cost of his own life) and—in retrospect—realizes that that can't interfere with or jeopardize anyone else's life, either. He also hasn't exactly handled Helios' own absence (and, for a moment there, near-death) very well at all. But just because he now understands what Praxis meant while chewing them out doesn't mean it's any easier to swallow.
> 
> Speaking of Praxis—Gods, poor Praxis. I wasn't very kind to him here, either.
> 
> I guess it's something that I've been wondering about (in a vague, vague way)—given the Fighter/Navigator interdependence, how would one balance out one's love for one's partner and the grim fact that losing them is a distinct possibility, perhaps all-the-more traumatic because they share a Starfighter—because they cradle each other's lives? And how would one, or _can_ one, separate loyalty to someone they love and their mutual loyalty (in theory) to the Alliance—that they're bound to the orders of their superiors?
> 
> In the comic, Praxis actually has his stuff together pretty well (all things considered), although I don't think this is very realistic (no offense to HamletMachine, of course)! Meanwhile, Abel's protective instinct, his love for Cain, is basically being exploited as a weapon because Abel's—well, Abel. The Ace of the Alliance, if you will. And while I've given Helios and Selene a fair deal of credit in their own right, the two of them _aren't_ Cain and Abel, after all, and perhaps those two aren't even "needed" in the same capacity in the AU-ness that is SF:E. Finally, I don't think the Alliance would have much tolerance for Helios and Selene having trouble following orders on a mission because they're so tied up in their (admittedly divergent) ideas of what it means to be in love and save a life.
> 
> Or, that's somewhat of all I was thinking as I wrote this.
> 
> Language bits (some from previous installments, some brand-new):  
> Russian:  
> "Idi nahui!": "F you!"  
> Welsh:  
> "Rydw i yma, cariad": "I'm here, love."  
> Māori:  
> "E ipo": "My darling."  
> "E hoa": "My friend."
> 
> The title and "Or:" are from the lyrics of "Citizen," by Broken Bells.
> 
> Thoughts/comments/suggestions/critiques are of course (and always!) welcome. I do hope you enjoy! <3

Selene's wounds from the skirmish with the Colterons were healed, though the skin still gleamed in the _Kepler_ 's runner-lights with newness: Helios ducked his head to kiss the flesh with something like finesse. The MO had never explicitly stated what Selene could or couldn't do—he was a Navigator, after all, his work was always on the bridge or in the hangar or the labs—but Helios had taken no chances and even insisted on sleeping in the top bunk for a week before Selene pressed him against the wall impatiently and whispered what had once been the Fighter's song: "I'm not glass, Afon. I won't break."

Still—the words alone were not enough—not until tonight, a full three weeks after that day which still dogged Helios' dreams with a harrowing tenacity until he woke up screaming.

Perhaps that's part of why he'd taken to such slow, slow nights with his Navigator: why he'd forced himself to stay awake, to talk, to whisper gentle-nothings until Selene was the first to fall asleep. Sleep, these days, was hell, so he'd simply rather not. Better to sit there and wonder how Selene could be so fucking _resilient._

And perhaps that's part of why Selene now found himself all but pinned underneath his Fighter, passion dulled and tempered by sudden confusion. Always, always _he'd_ been the one to kiss, to cajole, to stroke, to slip into his all-too-willing lover—but—

The night before the battle, no, that's when things were different, had been different ever since. Even if Selene's injuries had thus far limited them to the sleepy wandering of hands, the dynamic had been altered: something wasn't quite the same, wasn't balanced, wasn't right.

Not that he minded Helios' ministrations, necessarily—ah, no, he'd reveled in that night before the war was real—but it was _how_ his Fighter treated him tonight, how he touched him, how he never asked but just assumed that it was better this way, with a certain kind of arrogance, although in truth the Navigator hungered almost desperately for how they used to love—

 _He treats me like glass_ was the sudden revelation when he felt Helios shivering atop him with the effort of staying still; he'd been careful, Selene's body welcomed his, but it would have been much better, in reality, if he'd just set a set a driving rhythm and let them lose themselves rather than dance around the act.

After all, they'd done _that_ before. They'd lost themselves . . .

Not since the battle, though: now just this monochromatic act which didn't satisfy them both, not as it once had. God. Selene remembered when they were insatiable—when their cries really were too loud for propriety's sake aboard the _Kepler_ but he'd learned very quickly not to care—

_Now who am I to you? I'm still whole, I'm here, it's me. It's not so bad, Afon. What frightens you? (Don't you remember how we made love when you came back to me after that month? When your body was mapped with scars I had to learn? Do you forget, e ipo . . .?)_

Selene reached up to stroke his Fighter's hair away from heavy-lidded eyes. Helios was close, but even that thought—once incredibly erotic—didn't stir him now. No, now he wanted only to weep.

_You treat me as a stranger. Worse. Far worse, because a stranger you can bed as you please and forget in the morning. But—Afon—Afon—this is—_

"Ah! Shit!" the Fighter gasped, and there was the shudder and the heat of him; Selene put a hand against his chest, trying to angle his hips and find some redeeming pleasure, or a measure of grace in the residual pounding of the Fighter's heart—but nothing, nothing, nothing.

* * *

"Selene. Are you okay?"

The Navigator glanced up from a cup of rationed-coffee-swill to find Praxis standing awkwardly across the table. No eyepatch, still—he wondered briefly at why Hayden hadn't insisted on it—though perhaps the CO knew that the creation story of the empty socket was well worth the discomfort it might cause. They were all expected and trained, such as it were, to move on after tragedy—this _was_ a war—but seeing living flesh as proof was perhaps a better teacher than any training exercise or psych test.

"Ho, Praxis. I'm just fine!"

"Tch. You're faking it. Quite obviously, really."

The Fighter slid into the empty seat, fixed the Navigator with a worried stare, head turned slightly to compensate for his missing eye, giving the impression that he wasn't looking at Selene directly, that he couldn't meet his gaze. Finally he cleared his throat and searched for words that were slow, so slow in coming, because they hadn't really talked much in the past few weeks—not since—

"Well," Selene muttered, "it won't interfere with my duties as a Navigator, if that's what you're here to say."

"What? No. Selene, I'm sorry. What I meant to say before . . . I didn't say it well. For a lot of reasons."

Praxis reached out, laid a heavy hand atop his own; the Navigator shivered and hoped the Fighter didn't notice. "You haven't touched your breakfast. You should eat something."

And suddenly Selene couldn't stand it. The tray before him, the room, Praxis' alarmed expression all rolled and blurred as his eyes filled with more tears than he could blink away, as the sum of three weeks of grief and the truth of the battle and what Praxis had said—that he'd been _right_ —that Helios refused to acknowledge it, worse still—all overwhelmed him.

That their selfishness could have led to an empty seat across from him—and on the bridge, no bright-eyed, chipper Ethos—

Or that it was always his Afon who constantly worried over rations—who even slipped him bits of his own meals, whether he wanted them or not—because that's what Afon did, he worried for him, cared about him, loved him: he cast the shadow of his own semi-starvation as a teenager over Selene until it was simply the Fighter's _job_ to make sure that his Navigator was never hungry—

So, so different, that, from the man he'd slept with in the night—who'd been caring, in that he was gentle, but possessive, but stifling, but clinging to him not because he wanted or needed him but for some other reason—

"Fuck," he whispered fiercely. He _hated_ the word, like ash and acid in his mouth, but there was nothing else to say.

Praxis slid around the table, took him by the shoulders, pulled him close and offered him a silent cry, until his head pounded and his throat was raw with half-choked, muffled sobs but his eyes were dry and there was nothing, nothing, just like last night: a void.

And then the Fighter slipped a hand beneath his jaw, gently, gently, coaxing him up into the light again. A wry, sad smile crossed his face, more emotion in the empty socket than the living eye, and wordlessly a bowl of grits and a spoon were pressed into his hands, were cradled there, as if something precious, something that he didn't have the strength to hold.

* * *

Helios had dropped himself exhaustedly into the lower bunk by the time Selene arrived; the thin regulation blanket had slid from his shoulders, revealing the scars across his chest, along his arms. The Navigator slowly peeled off his uniform, running his fingertips along his own skin, unconsciously, as he wearily took in the Fighter's sleeping face and the way Helios clutched Selene's pillow to him—such a childish, heart-wrenching thing—

And for the first time in so long, he pulled himself up the ladder, loathe to take the top bunk but not knowing what else there was to do.

* * *

"Do you know why we've called you here?"

The CO's office—a maze of clear-paned consoles and pseudo-fragility. Helios felt like a flick of one finger would send the place crashing down around them; given how Hayden glared at them, how Encke and Keeler stared them down, he was sorely tempted to try.

And Selene—

To wake and find his Navigator gone, to find him in the mess hall and get nothing more than a glance before he turned back to Praxis—fucking _Praxis_ , of all people—who'd had the fucking balls to tell them that they were a liability three weeks ago—as if his, Helios', sole worth as a Fighter was proven only if he was willing to let something happen to Selene—if he was willing to lose him and move on— _Like Praxis had done a fucking stellar job of that—_

He'd been just as tempted then to throw Praxis a punch as he was to lay waste to Hayden's office now. _What the fuck is_ wrong _with everyone?_

_(Don't you fucking do this to me, Selene.)_

But the Navigator, standing stiffly at attention, made no move to look at him; well-enough he knew the Fighter's body language, well-enough he knew that this might get very ugly—and really, three weeks of Helios' insomnia and last night's awful sex and whatever else was running through that damn insufferable and much-beloved head—of course it would come down to this. What else, except perhaps Helios being locked in the brig?

"Do you know why you're here?" Encke this time, his voice dangerously low: for the moment, Hayden's mouthpiece.

"I think we'd have different answers for you, sir." Selene looked resolutely at someplace just beyond the CO's shoulders, while Hayden pursed his lips and Encke's gaze grew narrower.

"Is that true, Fighter?"

Helios squared his shoulders, jaw clenched, fists shoved into his pockets. "I don't know. You'd have to ask my Navigator, because he doesn't fucking talk to me these days. Or I guess you could ask Praxis—"

_(Afon! What . . .?)_

"You watch your language, Fighter." Keeler stepped forward, from shadows into light; his face was grim, and in some ways Selene was far more wary around him than Hayden. "And what does Praxis of all people—?"

Encke jerked his head quickly and Keeler let the question drop.

"Well. Helios, Selene, your training scores have gone to shit and it's apparent that something's not quite right." Hayden leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, appraising them with a cynic's eye. "After the skirmish with the Colterons, of course, all of you were required to submit to a psych exam. You passed, hence why you're still on the active duty list, although I've been intentionally keeping you from the first-response roster—I want to see those scores improve beforehand. And strangely it's been quiet—

" _However_ —your behavior as of late seems to suggest that we overlooked something. I'm talking to you, Fighter."

"Are you trained in psychology, sir?"

Selene winced, finally turning to look at the man he was rapidly realizing he didn't really know. Because there were always secrets buried, things that, once dragged out from the depths, could do such harm—so much so that now he wondered—

Hayden's mouth twisted into a long, thin smile. "No. But I've been in the Alliance since before you both were born. I've seen my share of trauma, and your behavior during battle, the degeneration of your compatibility—which is to say nothing of whatever happens outside the VR sims—and your blatant disrespect all suggest that you're wrestling with something, son."

Selene, Keeler, Encke all heard the choked cry that Helios somehow bit back.

"You're on thin ice, you understand? If you two don't get yourselves together I'll have no choice but to take you off the roster and have you examined more thoroughly at an Alliance base—"

Keeler suddenly gave a shriek and dodged behind the CO's desk as Helios' booted foot collided with the console-paneled wall, not inches from where he'd stood: the display flickered darkly and the structure groaned but somehow it held.

The room was still; the silence was so thick it could be tasted, the air so tense that it almost hurt to breathe.

The Fighter whirled again, casting his gaze around them, the wide net of a glare to root them all to where they stood—not even Encke moved to grab him, though he seemed more concerned with Keeler. As he stormed out of the office, Selene distinctly caught his parting words: "Idi nahui!"

* * *

"Saying it in Russian doesn't make it less an insult." Hayden rubbed his eyes.

"Keeler." Selene swallowed in a dry, dry throat. "Keeler, you're okay?"

"I'm fine, thank you." Keeler had straightened up, giving Encke a grateful look but slipping from his protective grasp. "Yes. Well. I guess that answers that. Commander Hayden, what should we do?"

"Hold on." Selene raised a hand in vain objection. "He's obviously upset by something, and yes—we've been having problems—but he's not a danger."

"What you say is generally true of the Helios you know," Hayden countered, "but that's not quite who we're dealing with."

Encke sighed. "Sir, I can keep an eye on him. Having someone else so volatile on board the _Kepler_ —"

"Yes, there's a rather delicate pecking-order with the Fighters, isn't there?"

"Don't . . . Please don't do anything. Just give me time."

Selene looked between the three of them, all ranking superiors, all veterans. "Please. I know there's nothing I can say to make you trust that I—that I can do any better than I've done these last three weeks. But I hope . . . if I can just calm him down . . . if I can break through whatever walls he's putting up . . ."

"It's an admirable sentiment, Navigator, but I don't think that will work. Well enough you should know that post-traumatic stress can mess someone up until they're a stranger. Hm." Hayden rose slowly to his feet, began to pace the room. "Encke, just keep tabs on him for now. Report to me if you perceive anything else that needs addressing. If he is a threat, you have my permission to subdue him.

"He was a good Fighter. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, but seeing as we're on the border of Alliance space with the Colterons up to Mother-knows-what—I can't risk him not being fit for duty at a moment's notice if I call him." The CO rubbed his eyes again. "Well, men, that's all. Dismissed."

* * *

"There's something you're not telling us."

Encke blocked his way; Keeler was at his back. The corridor was empty; no one came to the CO's office unless they were invited, and around them waxed the thrum of the _Kepler_ and no more.

Selene held out his hands. "What am I supposed to say? He won't talk to me. He's—over the last few weeks he's just . . . I don't know. Withdrawn and become so damn needy at the same time. It isn't . . . Helios."

"Would you say that he's unfit to be a Fighter?" Encke's voice was not unkind.

"I—how do you expect me to answer that?"

"With the truth, Selene. No one wants to see him hurting as bad as he is."

Selene tossed Keeler a glance. "So what? How do I know that whatever I say to you won't just find its way into the CO's ear?"

"You really think we're that low?" Encke put a hand on his shoulder, surprisingly gentle. "Look. We report to him when we need to because he _is_ our commander. But we're not rats. We don't take joy in it. If we tell him anything, it's because he has a legitimate need to know. If what you tell us about Helios—if it might help him make a good decision, a _changed_ decision . . . Selene, he's about two seconds away from consigning him to solitary and calling it a day. You understand?"

The Navigator clenched his teeth. "So that's how the Alliance treats its men? Really?"

"Easy there. It's not. But this is Hayden's ship, and we're at the border with the _Colterons,_ and if Helios is unstable he _does_ pose a risk to others on a mission, at the very least."

Selene closed his eyes.

But the words were a shadow at his tongue and there was nothing he could do to coax them forth.

"I'm sorry, but I can't." Selene looked up at Encke then, a silent plea; the Fighter ducked his head and stepped aside, a weary shifting to his shoulders, and the Navigator all but sprinted down the hall, heart-sick, wondering if his silence had been damning.

* * *

Keeler and Encke stood in the corridor a moment longer, torn between looking for Helios and wandering back to their respective duties.

"He trusts me," Encke started. "If I can find him and—I don't know—maybe Selene's too _close_ for him to be open with right now. Maybe he's afraid of what Selene will say. Maybe he'd talk to me—or, fuck, if Praxis weren't already involved—"

"No, not him. We can't wrap him up in this. Encke, remember what I said? If we lose one, we lose them both. I think Selene's fighting that—I think he realizes how dangerous it is—but Helios?"

Encke sighed. "Please don't be a pessimist right now."

* * *

"What the fuck're you doing with him!"

Praxis blinked up from the blow he hadn't seen, one that had sent him staggering; he and Ethos had intended to get some training in and had run into Helios instead—Helios as Praxis had never seen him—except once—

"Helios!" Ethos all but squeaked, tried to grab the Fighter's arm. "How dare you—"

Praxis shook his head, gingerly touching his left cheek. Truthfully he was mad enough to strangle the fucking bastard, but he couldn't—no, he couldn't—because said bastard was Selene's. "Ethos, let's just go."

"Answer me, you prick!"

"What?" Praxis turned then, ashen-faced. "What—you want a confession? You want me to say I've been fucking him? Want me to say that you're crazy, that you've lost it? _You're_ being the prick, Helios. Do you even get that? Can't you see that what you're doing is hurting him? And really, taking a cheap shot at a man's blind side—"

"You think I _wanted_ to?" Helios ground his teeth. "You think I fucking want to see him cozy up to you? And yeah, why don't you tell me just what the fuck you've been—"

"You are so _. . ._ You shut your mouth. Right now. _Right now,_ do you hear me?"

_. . . Selene?_

Helios turned, seeing the Navigator in the doorway, a silhouette, all hard and angled lines, all rage, all agony.

"You leave Praxis alone, you understand?"

The smaller man strode toward him, trembling.

"You have no right to be such a dick to him just because he's _right_ —and he's hurting too, you—"

"You don't fucking think I get it?" Helios bellowed finally. "You think he's the only suka here who knows what it's like to _lose_ someone?"

Selene stopped in his tracks; his fists were clenched, the muscles tense; Helios wondered just how close he'd been to taking a swing—God, maybe he _needed_ it—but it was _Selene,_ and the thought of his Navigator being so furious with _him_ —

_Oh, God—_

From the corner of one eye he caught Ethos and Praxis, waiting, waiting—why? To make sure that Selene would be okay?

Slowly he realized that he was shaking, too, and that his own hands were balled into fists. He'd never—he would never have raised a hand against Selene—

Would he?

Suddenly he knew he didn't know, because half the things he said and thought and did were like the actions of a stranger, or so wrapped up in adrenaline that there was no longer any choice.

 _Oh fuck._ Selene _._

And he was _glad_ that Praxis and Ethos were there.

The Navigator watched him warily a moment, then held out a hand, palm-up, making no move to hide its adrenaline-shot trembling.

"Afon." Softly, softly the name that he'd used so sparingly of late, seemingly uncaring of the fact that Praxis and Ethos were there. "Afon, please—"

* * *

"I don't want to talk to _you,_ " Helios seethed, staring at Praxis across the room—Praxis, who'd settled himself at _his_ chair, who was resting himself comfortably at the desk. Ethos and Selene stood with their backs against the door, arms crossed, eyeing both Fighters as if they were freshly-lighted dynamite.

"Well, good. You're going to fucking _listen_ to me then. That's the least you can do, considering you seem to think I'm sleeping with your Navigator. And for this." Praxis raised a droll hand to his cheek. "Thanks."

Helios' stomach sank. "That was . . . Fuck. Praxis—"

"Don't say you're sorry. It's just empty shit, you see, it's words, it doesn't mean anything." The Fighter settled himself in the chair again, ill-at-ease, trying to conceal it. "You hear me out, I'll call it good."

"Fine."

"Sit down, would you?"

"No."

". . . Hm. It's your bunk. Whatever.

"Look." Praxis leaned closer, elbows on his knees. "What I told Selene this morning was what I'll tell you now. Take it or leave it. What I said . . . after that skirmish . . . None of it came out the way I meant it to. Alright? But I was angry at you both. I was. Still am. You _deliberately_ sent us off to patrol the border when Ethos was right—we were never told to split up. You could have gotten us killed. And why? Because you two couldn't fucking agree with each other, or with us.

"Selene."

Said Navigator ducked his head.

"You wanted to protect us and your Fighter so damn badly that you thought you could handle it alone, because you're both . . . you're _good_ , I'll give you that, but you never thought that real war isn't like a VR sim, did you? And _you_ , Helios—I know you. I know what I'd be thinking—what I thought.

"'We've got this. Just us. We don't need them to be on our conscience if they die.' Something like that—am I right? 'We have a greater chance of survival this way: _Tiberius_ doesn't know what they're up against.'"

Helios shot Selene a glance and looked away, feeling like those star-grey eyes were sharp enough to wound.

"Well let me tell you, Fighter, that's not the fucking way it works. You're in the same Starfighter but we're all in this fucking war. That bullshit's what got my Logos killed, what lost me my eye, what took _everything_ from me."

"Ethos is still here." Helios stared at Ethos, Ethos with a slate-blank face and dry, dry eyes. _The fuck?_

"I know. _He_ knows. See, the thing is, Fighter, we've actually waded through our heavy shit. I tried not to. I tried to bear with him and move on because that's what we're fucking supposed to do. Isn't it? But you _never_ just move on from that. You never get better. You never stop remembering what it is you've lost—and not just half the world. You understand?"

Helios' eyes slid left from Ethos to Selene; he was startled, then, to see the pallor stealing across those olive cheeks. _Praxis didn't get this fucked up on you, then? Sure, I'll bet he was real, real gentle—_

But the anger, the fury, wasn't holding, wasn't _worth_ holding, because it burned his hands, his throat, his gut—his mind, if he were honest, like the white, white light V had mentioned just before—and worse than all of that, really, it tore at his _heart_ —because there was Selene, standing next to Ethos, trembling—not from fear—or pain—

For what?

And God, he was just so fucking _tired_ of it all—of everything—of all the things he wanted to say—

—of the sleepless nights (because sleep was hell and if he did he just saw V stumbling home one night, wouldn't tell him what was wrong, why she was walking weird and didn't share the cot with him, her own kid brother, for a long, long time—or else Selene, Selene, and sheer Goddamned _silence_ over the headsets—Selene dead in a pool of blood when Helios somehow nursed the _Edifice_ back home—or else—or else—or else—)

—of the great-gaping-fear-made- _reality_ that was what Praxis said—the guilt—the truth, implicit but still fucking _truth_ —

If he wasn't a real Fighter, what the fuck was he?

If he hadn't joined the Alliance to follow Valentina, then for what?

Because she was gone.

And the way things were shaping up, he didn't even know about Selene anymore because his brilliant, fucking brilliant, Navigator was still human—

(Now there were scars on _his_ skin, too, and oh God, to hear him try so hard not to scream that day had been almost worse—)

_Fuck—oh fuck—please—just shut up—all of you—_

_Get out, get out, GET OUT—_

"Praxis." Ethos, softly—Ethos always softly—called him back, stepped forward to touch his Fighter's hand—Ethos in a voice that was higher on the register than normal. "Praxis, sweetheart, let's just go. We need to go."

And only from Ethos could such a word leave Praxis for a moment with his head buried in his hands. He stood, slowly, slowly, coiling up from the chair, a great, tall, mass of a man who looked wearier than Atlas.

* * *

As Ethos held him in the hallway, held him with all the strength in that stocky, plucky frame, Praxis couldn't get Helios out of his mind. He hadn't meant to lose it—not again—he'd meant to be just as patient as he'd been with Selene this morning—but—

But God, seeing that greenling all crumpled in a corner like the whole world had just exploded all around him was too fucking familiar—a mirror cast in brutal retrospect. Pain fed pain, it bit its own tail and conceived unto itself more of itself. That's all.

* * *

"Afon."

Cool hands against his cheeks. Tentative. A voice that shook.

_You're afraid of me?_

"Afon. E ipo. Can you hear me?"

_Rydw i yma, cariad. I'm here, I'm here, I'm here. Please. Help me._

_Help me._

"Help me. Oh fuck. Oh God. Please—"

The teeth were clenched and those gorgeous eyes, of stormy seas, rolled white-and-wide with primal fear. Selene had seen a rabbit once, caught in a piece of wire, fighting death and terror both. His Afon seemed so much like that rabbit now . . .

"Shh. Shh. It's okay. It's just me. Selene. I'm here . . ."

The Navigator sank down next to him, an awkward place to occupy, just between Helios, the wall, the sharp corner of the bunk. He didn't care. Helios had been a stranger to him, true enough—had woken screaming in the night—had clung to him until he wondered if he'd break, yet treated him as gently as if he surely would—had done the unthinkable and punched out Praxis—

But—it didn't matter now—not a moment of it—

The man who now curled in upon himself, a fetal ball, who buried his head against Selene's chest and cried, was just like that same rabbit he'd cut free: its eyes were glazed with bloodshot terror and Selene had felt its tiny heart beat itself out—faster and faster and faster—until the rabbit was limp in his hands.

"Don't leave. Don't leave me. Don't leave. Oh fuck. Don't leave."

—and he was just like the woman on the _Swift_ as well, caught beneath the chunk of super-heated metal on which Selene burned his hands but couldn't move—

He began to stroke the Fighter's head, his cheek, rocking him, rocking him until the tremors left. Impulsively, in a moment of sick fear, he laid his hand against the chest and felt the heartbeat slow—but of course it didn't stop.

* * *

The room was dark, was always cold. The night-shift?

Someone lay next to him, leaned into him, held his hand so tightly . . .

Selene?

Helios blinked, the darkness somehow _bright_ , his head pounding relentlessly. His cheeks were rough with the dried tracks of tears and days' worth of unshaved stubble. He felt weak, felt sick, felt like there was at once a weight upon him and such, such lightness that it was excruciating . . .

Selene whimpered in his sleep and stirred and jerked awake, eyes wide. But he didn't move, nor did Helios: how could they, how could they?

* * *

"Do you even remember what happened, Afon?"

Later, then—sometime later—sometime when he'd crawled or been helped into the bunk, when Selene had brought him water, brought them pilfered rations from the mess hall once again . . . sometime when the fear had finally loosed its fucking claws. When he realized that he'd slept—God, he'd slept—no dreams— _How come no dreams?_

"Maybe. I don't know." His head was heavy on the pillow; the Navigator crouched beside him, close enough so that he could feel the tickle of his breath. "Bits. I guess. Fuck. Praxis?"

"Yes, he was here. He's with Ethos now. They're gone."

"I don't—remember—"

"Shh. Don't try. It's okay."

Again that hand at his forehead, cool like the ocean. Steady, though.

"Please. Come here."

Selene kicked off his boots, wasn't surprised at all to see that Helios had taken his spot against the wall; for whatever else had happened, this was what the Fighter needed now—just his closeness—just his warmth—just familiarity—just something, something, to stand between himself and the world.

"Selene."

A whisper. His hands felt hot against the Navigator's skin, cold and drawn and goosebumped in the artificial atmosphere.

"What is it, Afon?"

"I hate . . . I don't want to ask. I've fucked things up. I'm sorry. Fuck. I'm sorry. If you want to request reassignment I . . . I wouldn't . . . Fuck. But please . . ."

"Afon, please, it's okay. It's okay. I won't leave you—do you understand? I won't, I will never . . . Shh. Don't even think about that. . . .What do you need, e ipo?"

And it was all Helios could do not to weep at the hands, the gentle hands, which touched his cheeks and traced circles with a thumb around his eyes, along his nose; the lips which brushed his own.

Selene leaned against the Fighter, willing him closer, willing him to turn, even if it meant he faced the wall. "You'll be okay?"

_Doesn't matter. Just—you're here. That's all. That's all._

Helios obeyed—no comment, the wall was fine, he didn't care. He was too tired, too exhausted, to do anything besides. And last night—last night he'd made perhaps his biggest error, he'd thought that Selene's needing protection extended to this—to their acts of love—to the idea that he had to be the one in control—but it had never been like that, not ever—and all he'd wanted, really, was just this—just this—

And all of that was far, far worse, more painful, than anything else in the last three weeks—even their first time in the VR sims after the battle, when he'd panicked, when no one could have fucking proved to him that it wasn't real.

"Shh. Don't cry. Don't cry, Afon. It's still okay like this?"

—and the familiar body pressed against him, the slender chest nestled into the sway of his back, one arm dropped across his hip, the fine-boned and quick-fingered hand dancing across the member of the body that was all-too-willing because this was the one thoughtless and life-affirming thing he knew.

It was bittersweet, the pleasure, the exquisite way Selene could move within him, how the Navigator's hand caught his. Bittersweet, but the Navigator's promise that, if broken, if still half-caught-up in a nightmare, he would never be abandoned.

* * *

"Who is it?"

"Selene and Helios."

A moment's awkward shuffle—there were definitely more than two men in that room and Helios' stomach clenched—before the door slid wide to reveal Praxis' shadowed face. He swallowed—throat too dry, too tight, like he'd tried coughing up a razor blade.

"Ho, Praxis."

"Helios." A nod, somewhere just over the Navigator's shoulder. "Selene."

"Praxis, we don't want to interrupt you . . ." Selene glanced once at his Fighter. "If you have company."

"Just Encke and Keeler."

_Oh, fuck no. Selene, let's not . . ._

But the Navigator's voice was firm. "Would you mind if we came in?"

* * *

 

The head Fighter/Navigator team had seated themselves on the floor while Ethos and Praxis took the desk. An odd arrangement—before Helios spotted the half-empty bottle of vodka.

"Helios. Selene."

Encke, then, with a small, small smile: Encke who wouldn't dare show a trace of what had happened up in Hayden's office. Encke who wanted so badly to hope for the best.

Keeler, meanwhile, looked nothing if indifferent.

"What's up?" Ethos asked, handing Praxis back his cup and curling his knees up against his chest.

"First." Helios blinked around at them, took a deep, slow breath. The datapad wouldn't stop fucking shaking in his hands. "First I—I'm sorry. To all of you. The way I've been behaving lately . . . I wasn't always in control. I hope you can understand that. I didn't always—I couldn't always control what I did, what I said, my reactions. Thank you for not just throwing me into the brig. That . . . that would have made it worse."

The thought of being alone—alone—without Selene—without the man he'd rather die for than spend his life without—was enough to drench him in cold sweat.

Encke ducked his head.

"Second, Praxis. I didn't listen like you asked, so I don't know if it means any more than it did then, but I—but I'm sorry."

"Just yesterday you were a fucking mess. What's changed? Why should I believe you?" Praxis settled next to Ethos, stared them down. The bruise on his cheek was already fading, and if there wasn't exactly kindness in his face neither was there malice in his voice.

"Today I went to Hayden. I read him something. Uhm. S-Selene helped me write it, because we'd talked about it and . . . I didn't want to fuck it up."

He felt the Navigator move behind him, softly, softly, standing just near enough so Helios could feel the warmth of him, better than a shadow.

"I want to share this with you as a Fighter. That _is_ who I am. And with you all because I serve with you, because I care about you. Because I've hurt you. Needlessly. Because I've been too fucking stubborn or too sick to—"

A gentle nudge from Selene. _You don't need that, Afon._

"Please."

Keeler reached out, picked up the bottle, held it up. "This first." There was something somber in his eyes—he was studying the Fighter, picking apart the stitches with which he and Selene had pieced him back together. Well. For whatever he'd done, this was at least—at last—the right thing, if anything could be.

Helios took a swig, half-turned to give the bottle to Selene, who shook his head. So back the bottle went to Keeler.

And then Praxis raised his hand.

"Put the datapad away. I want to hear it straight from you."

* * *

"I love him."

Helios swallowed (again with the damn razor blade) and looked around the room—around, around—refusing to meet anyone's gaze; he couldn't even meet Selene's—the Navigator sat beside him.

"And I would die for him."

His hands trembled and he shoved them into his pockets. He was _still_ a Fighter, and good men though Praxis and Encke were—they had no room for this.

"Fighters shouldn't say that, but it's true.

"I'm not here to plead with you. I'm not here to roll over and give you my belly so you can cut me. Got it?"

The Fighter's eyes were bright, were sharp. With Selene he could be soft, could cry, could work out all the Goddamn knots in the sweetness of post-coital haze or else just the middle of the night-shift when he woke up screaming (yet again).

Not them.

With them he had to be—he didn't know—someone besides the Helios he'd been with Hayden, who'd come to the CO's office in a stiff uniform, hair actually combed, the datapad in hands which he'd refused to let tremble.

"I don't want your fucking pity or to heap my misery on you. We've all lost someone. Or we will. That's the truth. It's the truth and for the last three weeks I couldn't fucking swallow it."

"So what changed?" Keeler asked. "Psychological problems don't disappear overnight. Not for good."

"The CO required me to resubmit to an examination. Physical and psych. What that means is none of your damn business. And then he ordered me to shadow both of you." A nod, then, to Encke and Praxis. "He wants us to run drills together in the VR sims. . . . Worst-case scenarios. You understand? Where I have two choices: one that saves Selene and one . . ." He didn't trust himself yet to handle the horrible thought, no matter if it wasn't real, and closed his mouth.

"Well, given how I saw you last night . . ." Praxis glanced to the men before him, wondering how Selene felt about all that. "Can we trust you to be up to this?"

"He's giving me a chance. That's all I asked him for. I can either prove that I can work through my shit or not."

"And if the Colterons—?"

Defiantly, don't-fuck-with-me, the old Helios returned to them:

"I'll be there."

* * *

They were halfway down the hall, Helios' head heavy from the vodka, before Praxis caught them, took Selene by the shoulder, turned him round.

"You sure?"

"About Afon?" Mild curiosity in the star-grey eyes, no more, except perhaps a little pleasure in daring to use the name he'd forbidden to everyone but him. "Yes. Ethos trusts you, doesn't he? Don't we? You have the same things buried, Praxis." A shrewd tilting of his head. "Don't forget, e hoa."

"Do you want to know why I let you cry?"

Praxis jabbed a hand toward Helios. The Navigator wondered briefly what drunk Praxis was like.

"I saw myself in him. And when I went through this shit, there was no one there for Ethos."

And nothing more, no more: the Fighter turned, stumbled, felt his way along the wall, left hand held out just _so_ , that his fingertips could brush the edges of the doorframes as he passed.

* * *

But Praxis' doubt was like stones in his gut, like salt and ash on his tongue when he and Helios finally made it to their bunk. He could still taste the vodka on his Fighter's lips and didn't like it. He knew that soon he'd have to work through the same tangled mess as Afon: the difference, he supposed, was that he was better at hiding it, at keeping it at bay. Fighters, after all, were visceral—and what was one of the greatest threats to survival but the trappings and unravelings of one's own fragile mind? Navigators thought through everything, instead of fought, and soon enough that same darkness would catch up with him, the same.

* * *

Helios saw how his Navigator wrinkled his nose when they kissed and stumbled to the bathroom, comforted by the steam, the showerheads, disgruntled at whoever else was in there. He washed his face in cold water, rinsed his mouth in the tin-tasting swill, hoped that was good enough.

Only upon leaving did he recognize the voice of the man in the shower—being that of someone he'd never heard.

* * *

He slid into the bunk, against the wall; lithe, liquid-like, Selene joined him. He beat the Navigator to the ritualistic tracing of their scars—Selene knew his already—he'd been too much a fool the nights before to notice. Delicate slivers, mostly, from deep, deep wounds: delicate just like the slender man with olive skin and the most brilliant fucking mind.

"You don't need to protect me," he whispered finally, lips at his Navigator's collarbone, the first of few erogenous places he knew. To distract Selene from the weight of the words, he let his hands wander, following the ribs, the flesh just above those narrow hipbones; slowly he ran his fingertips in circles there. Selene arched his back, breath lost in a cry, and the Fighter smiled slightly: for all his poise, all his skill, the Navigator came undone so quickly.

"Promise me. Selene. Promise me you'll let that be my job, to keep . . . us safe."

"If it can still stay mine."

And that wasn't really a contradiction, the both of them came to realize in the course of their making love: it was a promise, manifold, and to many people more than merely themselves.

* * *

Afon—a river, was his Afon—and Selene never knew, nor would he now, just what sort of current the waters carried until he tried to dance in them. But the rush of the river was as tantalizing as the singing, swaying ocean in his blood, and of all the sacred places that he'd never seen nor would hope to see again.

* * *

Selene was light, was water, was heat: Helios didn't think about the darkness now, about the nightmares, about the weight of crawling back into the _Edifice_ again. They would come, of course, all of them and in due time. But it didn't seem to matter so much now. No—he merely let his name be a cry on those cool, cool lips which reminded him of some distant watered world and let himself be loved.


End file.
